Strangewood (30 page)

For it was Our Boy who had first conceived the idea of the
Forest Rangers, oh so long ago.

"I'm sorry," Redleaf said, defeated by his own
train of thought.

"Sorry isn't enough," The Boy said. "You
abandoned your post, but you've done no worse than the others. Where are they
all? How can all this . . . horror have happened here without the Rangers
putting a stop to it? That's what you are here for! How can the Jackal Lantern
have . . .”

"The fires," Redleaf said quickly. "That's
what the fires are for. The Lantern uses them to frighten us. Split Trunk and
Short Branch were . . .” the Forest Ranger glanced quickly at the little bell
bottom. "They were burned in the fires, trying to stop the flames that
came for the Land of Bells and Whistles and the Big Old Orchard."

The tree's branches drooped.

"I ran," he confessed.

"And now you're here," Brownie growled. "You've
lived to fight another day. Perhaps that's best."

"The best," chimed the bell-bottom. "All the
other Rangers will help."

"I don't know," Redleaf said doubtfully. "The
Lantern has fire. I know he has the little boy." He looked at The Boy. "Your
sapling. But maybe it's something the two of you can work out amongst
yourselves."

Our Boy, whom Redleaf knew was named Thomas, though he would
never presume to use that name, shook his head sadly. He snorted, though in
disgust or grief, Redleaf did not know.

"If anything happens to Nathan . . . if the Jackal
Lantern is not stopped . . . I don't think Strangewood will survive much
longer. If we go against old Jack and lose, you'll probably burn in the end
anyway."

The grizzly stared up at the tree, but The Boy looked away. Redleaf
chose to look at the back of The Boy's head, and he felt a terrible sadness. He
had been a coward before, and he was still afraid. But fear would drive him. If
the choice was fight or die . . .

"I'll send the word through the wood," Redleaf
said. "The other Rangers will have to choose for themselves. Most of them
are more courageous than I, so perhaps . . ."

The Boy turned away and began to walk across the stream and
up toward the still pristine forest beyond.

"Do what you must," The Boy commanded. "When
we reach the Jackal Lantern's fortress, we'll need all of you."

The bell-bottom's clapper cling-clanged as he hurried across
the stream and followed The Boy into the forest. Brownie the Grizzly gave Redleaf
one last glance, and then he, too disappeared into the forest. Through it all,
Redleaf said nothing more.

He had nothing to say.

When the battle came, they would live or die. When the fight
was so real, the choice so clear, even a coward could feel brave.

What other choice did he have?

With a dry, stale mouth and a very full bladder, Emily
rolled over and stared for several moments through heavily lidded eyes at her
alarm clock. It was twenty-one minutes past three o'clock on Friday morning. She
was barely cognizant of the low droning of voices from the flickering
television screen. Upon her return to the house late the previous night, she
had locked the place up tight and fidgeted nervously for some time before
finally drifting off.

In her dreams, a hideous face had peered through leaves and
branches at her, taking on ever more monstrous proportions as the dream
repeated itself, changing and mutating as the night wore on. It wasn't quite a
nightmare, since nothing beyond that took place in the dream. Still, it
unsettled her sleeping mind and now, as she woke, she felt grumpy; even a bit
edgy. The sound of the television cut through to her conscious mind now, and
she found it aggravating.

Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she swung her legs
over the edge of the bed and winced as a sharp pain spiked through her head. There
was Advil in the drawer in her nightstand, and she made a mental note to take
some just as soon as she had relieved the pressure in her bladder.

Eyes open only enough so that she wouldn't smash into a wall
or the door frame, she shuffled into the master bathroom, leaving the light
off. The flickering from the television was enough to guide her nocturnal
excursion. With her panties around her ankles, she let her eyes close once
more, and sighed softly with relief as she let her bladder go.

From somewhere downstairs came a muffled thump.

Emily's eyes snapped open; she was wide awake now. The
stream of her urine stopped instantly, and she forgot any urge she might have had
to continue. Forgot her headache. Forgot her dreams.

This was no dream.

As silently as she was able, she stood and pulled her cotton
panties up her legs, fitting them into place. Gently, soundlessly, she stepped
back into the master bedroom. On the TV screen she saw a large ship with sails
flying, and thought she remembered the film:
Green Dolphin Street
, or
something like that. She reached out to snap the set off, and then held back. That
was sure to draw attention. Instead, she walked around the bed — not
wanting to make any springs creak by laying across it — and picked up the
phone. She dialed 911 as quickly as she was able and waited far too long for
the line to be answered.

When the operator finally picked up, Emily spoke in a low
voice, praying the TV noise would cover for her.

"There's someone in my house," she said, then
quickly added her name and address before hanging up. No need to stay on the
line now, she knew. The police would be on their way soon.

But what if it wasn't soon enough? That was the overriding
thought in Emily's mind, the one that prompted her to slip silently to her
bedroom door. It was open, and she was grateful for that. She'd meant to get
around to squirting some WD-40 on the hinges, but just hadn't had the chance. That
was the kind of thing that Thomas had always done. Theirs had been a good
partnership, a comfortable division of labor, for a long time. Before it all
went to hell. She still didn't quite understand why that was. The Thomas and
Emily of ten, even five years before, wouldn't have let that happen.

Entropy. Shit happens. Things rot.

When you aren't looking, the world turns and your whole life
is fucked up beyond recognition and first your son and then your ex-husband get
taken off the chessboard without any warning whatsoever.

And then some insidious little motherfucker with a cruel
glint to his eye and a stupid smile on his face sneaks into your house in the
middle of the night, and the world just keeps sliding down the greased pole of
life into . . . shit.

"No," Emily whispered, anger mixing potently with
fear.

It was all catching up to her now, as she stood with her
back to her bedroom wall, ears attuned to even the slightest sound. But there
were no sounds. Not the thump of someone moving below, or the creak of a foot
on the stairs, or the distant wail of police sirens. She had a moment where she
wondered if she hadn't overreacted. Perhaps it had been nothing. Some local
punk throwing an egg at the house or her purse sliding off the edge of a chair
where she hadn't placed it as firmly as she'd thought.

That's what she wanted to believe.

Then she tasted copper in her mouth and realized that she'd
bit her own lip and blood flowed into her throat. Emily began to cry and could
not understand why. She was angry, and she was afraid, but the crying made no
sense to her.

Quickly, she wiped the tears away. It felt like her eardrums
pulsed with her rapid heartbeat. Silently, she slid around and bent over
slightly so that she could peek out into the hallway.

Nothing. No one in the hall. No one, as far as she could
see, on the stairs. Her decision was made and her body was moving before she
even realized what she was doing. Emily moved across the hall and into Nathan's
room without making a sound. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the toys
for one particular object, something she'd been convinced he was too young for
when Thomas had first brought it over. She'd been right, too. The thing was too
unwieldy for the boy. At least for now. But Nathan wouldn't let Emily stick it
in the basement for when he got bigger. He'd insisted that it stay right there
in his room at all times.

It stood against the wall next to Nathan's bookcase. Emily
reached out and grabbed the shaft, then hefted the classic wooden Louisville
Slugger over her shoulder.

Out in the hall, one of the steps creaked. Third from the
top. Emily recognized the sound well. The creak had been there since the
Randalls had first moved into the house.

Emily nearly squealed with fright but caught herself. She
stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm down and slow her heart,
which seemed to be about to shatter in her chest. She tossed her blonde hair
over her left shoulder and crept to the wall inside Nathan's room. For a
moment, she saw herself in the mirror over her son's bureau, and her eyes
widened at how ridiculous she looked. She had a Tweety Bird t-shirt and her
panties on, and that was all. With the bat over her shoulder, she looked
absurd.

Somehow that only terrified her more.

She could feel him. Out in the hallway. So close. With her
back to the wall, she stood just inside the door and waited for the intruder to
come into Nathan's room. She could hear the TV from her bedroom, and for a
moment it distracted her. Then she tried to listen to what might be there
beneath that sound. It was crazy, of course. She wouldn't be able to hear him
breathing or anything.

Then, as if on cue, she was proven wrong. Out in the hall,
just outside Nathan's room, probably, she surmised, at the door to her own
bedroom, she heard someone snickering. A low chuckle, but going on and on. It
wasn't something on the television, either. This was real, and close by, and
terrifying. She felt like she might throw up, but when the sound stopped, it
brought her up short, and Emily stood up straight again, ready to bring the bat
down at the first sign of someone entering the room.

As she straightened, the bat gently bumped the wall behind
her. Emily closed her eyes tightly, squeezed out a few last tears, and then
held her breath. She'd given herself away for sure, telegraphed her position to
some lunatic who was truly enjoying the dread and terror he was inspiring in
her.

In the darkness of Nathan's bedroom, with only the dim light
from outside to offer any illumination in the room, the intruder appeared
suddenly at the door. He walked straight in, with no deviation. He was short,
but lean, and she could make out facial hair, like a heavy beard, or something.
And his face . . . his face was so strange . . . and the way he walked, hunched
over just a bit. She couldn't see him very well, but he seemed somehow
freakish, and all the more frightening for it.

Emily ran out of air. She had to breathe, and she allowed
herself a quick, sharp intake of breath.

He turned.

Emily's scream felt to her like a roar. She swung the bat as
hard as she was able, pulling a muscle in her right bicep while doing so. The
wooden bat cracked over his forehead, splitting it in two. The intruder's head
snapped back, and he yelped in pain like an injured dog before stumbling
backward to sprawl with a crash into Nathan's bureau.

In the darkened room, she could only make out the bulk of
his body as the intruder drew up on all fours, scrambling to get to his feet. For
a moment, she hesitated. Her body seemed to be pulling at her to run, to flee
out into the hall, down the stairs and . . . but no, he would catch her. Emily
forced herself to move toward him, bat raised once again. As the intruder
struggled to rise, a growl came from his throat. Emily thought of a Doberman
that had lived in her neighborhood when she was a girl. A dangerous, vicious
dog. The growl was the same.

With a whimper of her own, Emily brought the bat down with
all her strength, ignoring the sharp, needle pain in her bicep where she'd
already torn a muscle.

Without raising his head, the intruder's hand snapped up and
stopped the bat in mid-descent. She thought she heard bones crack in his hand
and his growl grew louder. The intruder yanked the bat from her hand, and stood
quickly, effortlessly.

Emily stood frozen in the room as this . . . beast was the
only word that came to mind . . . turned his back on her. The growling
subsided, and he grunted softly.

"Don't do that," the intruder said, his voice
higher, less savage and more boyish than she would have imagined.

Then he lifted the bat and, with a powerful swing so fast
she could barely follow it, he shattered Nathan's bedroom window. The screen
popped out when the bat struck it and fell soundlessly to the lawn below. Half
a dozen large glass shards bounced off the screen and back into the room. The
rest of the shattered window showered out onto the grass.

The intruder began to laugh. A cackle, really, like nothing
Emily had ever heard.

He dropped the bat to the floor, seemed to pause a moment,
and then hurled himself bodily through the broken window. Emily screamed. They
were two stories up. She ran to the window, but in those precious seconds, he
had already struck the ground and was now up again, sprinting across the lawn
faster than she had ever seen anyone run.

Ever.

"Oh my God," Emily whispered to herself.

Blue police lights flickered as a pair of prowl cars slid
silently into her driveway. Eyes still wide with astonishment, she went down to
open the door for them.

It occurred to her for just a moment, as she was unlatching
the front door, that it was possible she had simply never woken from her
dreams, now nightmares. All of this might be a bad dream, she thought, almost
hysterical. Nathan. Thomas. Her intruder. All of it.

It was a blissful thought.